Despite what you may be thinking, this is not going to be about vomit. Well, not entirely.
Apparently, from the age of 2 dating back to about the time I was born, I had a problem. I puked. A lot. And I don't mean normal baby oh-I-have-gas-so-I-spit-up. I mean vomit. Upchuck. PUKE. My parents would put me down on the floor to let me roll around, and I would puke and then go about my merry way. I vomited on everything and everyone; I was an equal opportunity puker. Doctors were baffled, my parents were worried, and I am sure that just reassured in my big brother's mind why having a baby sister was indeed a BAD idea. They say I was never really sick, I just puked a lot? I don't know. Obviously, I survived my youth, so whatever was making me regurgitate wasn't exactly life threatening.
Well, when I was little, I had several nicknames. The usual 'honey,' 'sweetie,' 'morning glory'...
[This was and is my personal favorite; every morning my mom would come in to wake me up and say "Rise and shine my morning glory." Morning glories are happy looking flowers that bloom in the morning. Pretty awesome thing to hear when you woke up. This calm, sweet greeting however, faded when I began middle school, as did my social aptitude and clear skin-- but I digress]
...and last but not least, 'Barf.' Oh, this is not a usual nickname that parents lovingly bestow on their children?? Interesting. My parents did. As far back as I can remember, that has been my nickname, and early in my life, it never bothered me. My parents and brother would call me Barf in the comfort of our own home, and occasionally, quietly at dinner. No one ever heard them call me this, so no harm, so foul.
The problems began around high school. I was still not bothered with "Barf," until my mother became much more careless with her use of the name. She began to yell it over the aisles in Publix when she couldn't find me. Or if I were to leave the table at a restaurant for a quick little bathroom run, before they took our drink orders, I would hear 'Barf, honey! What did you want to drink?????' For some reason, she managed to work my appetizing nickname in when we were in a place of FOOD. Totally what everyone wanted to hear when they were deciding what to make for dinner. To make matters worse, when people would obviously be shocked/grossed out by this crazy woman yelling BARF, she would assure them that it is just my nickname. Great. I could see it in the innocent bystanders eyes-- "If that girl pukes on me, which is likely because she pukes enough to have warranted a nickname pertaining to vomit, I'm gonna be PISSED." I would be too guys, I would be too. I never really told my friends my nickname. Not because I was embarrassed, but I just didn't feel like getting the uneasy look from them, and forever fielding questions like 'Do you feel ok? Are you gonna BARF now?? WILL YOU WARN US BEFORE YOU DO?!' It would have just been easier to say "Hey, see that little woman shouting BARF at me? Here's why."
Fast forward to present-day. Since I have gone to college, gotten married, had a baby and in a sense, grown up, one would think that my Barf days would be far behind me. No no no. My brother's wife- Blake- found out my nickname, and assumed everyone in the Free World knew. "Ohhhh I thought EVERYONE knew!" Yeah Blake. I am so proud of that nickname, so naturally I want as many people as possible to know that as a child, I had yacking problem-- a problem so bad, that the nickname has weathered 23 years and is still going strong. I now have people I don't know calling me Barf. She claims she texts 'Barf' when she refers to me while talking to people because 'Elizabeth' is just too long. She has also added fun little suffixes to 'Barf'-- I guess BARF by itself wasn't quite weird enough?
[side note: This is not the first time unnecessary endings have been added. I have been called Barf-alonious, Barf-ous, and Barf-ulopogus just to name a few. These rare treats were usually used once or twice and were retired.]
But sweet Blake decided to call me BARFaroni. That's right, BARFARONI. A name that she has called me on numerous occasions since I met her last year. A cruel morphing of the delicious Chef Boyardee masterpiece, Beefaroni. Now may be a good time to expose my obsession with all that is Boyardee. I love it and I was appalled that she would somehow link my vomit with The Chef's scrumptious canned cuisine.
There is really no point to this story except to I guess make you feel good about your 'dumb' nicknames [or your life in general?], or to perhaps inspire you to not give your poor children horrid pet names.
Oh, and if that doesn't make you feel good/cool/whatever-- I don't know how to ride a bike either.